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. The squirrel panted miserably, not certain which
was worse: the grim possibilities inherent in the cat's white
teeth or the aching reality of his own imprisonment. The
cage, he decided wretchedly.
The cage made his bones hurt and his heart race hard in
frightening fits and starts. But when he saw the fire
smouldering in the cat's almond-shaped, green eyes, the
squirrel thought that it might not be such a bad thing that
there were bars between them.
TELL ME, SQUIRREL, the cat murmured, WHEN
DO YOU THINK HE'LL FEED US AGAIN?
OH, SOON, SOON, I'M SURE! the squirrel chattered.
VERY SOON. BUT I CAN'T IMAGINE YOU'RE STILL
HUNGRY. YOU ATE TWO MICE ONLY A LITTLE WHILE
AGO. . . . The squirrel winced, then flicked his tail and
scrubbed at his whiskers with his small white paws. He
didn't like to think about the mice or their helpless
scurrying. And he especially did not like to think about the
cool and deadly look of the cat as he licked his lips with his
rough pink tongue, or the pitiful crunch of little mousy
bones.
And they had been small mice. The squirrel wondered
whether the cage would hold if the tabby decided to knock
it from the table.
CAT, he said, trying to be as friendly and amiable as he
could through his fear, I THINK THERE MIGHT BE
ANOTHER MOUSE AROUND HERE SOMEWHERE
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